


Somnolence

by tailor31415



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Allusions to PTSD, Gen, but instead sharing a wall, not sharing a bed, sappy angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tailor31415/pseuds/tailor31415
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky will not sleep in the bed, or the couch, or the air mattress, and Steve wonders if he would sleep upright if he had the chance, and desperately hopes that he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somnolence

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure what to tag exactly but don't expect more than a bit of heartachy somberness

Bucky does not sleep in the bed – at least not when Steve first lures him back.

And he does it carefully, using himself as bait, using their past as bait, to lure him back to his side.

He goes for walks in their old neighborhood – a cap pulled down low over his eyes and collar turned up over his neck, as if he is trying to hide, when all he really wants is to be sure Bucky watches him.

He starts out far, walking circles around the city slowly, walking down streets that no longer look the same, no longer sound the same, but that still carry the shadow of what they once were. Shadows that hopefully still exist in Bucky’s memory.

He walks to Coney Island, and stands looking out at the water and closes his eyes and, for a moment, listening to the happy screams and cheers and music behind him, for a moment he is back walking that boardwalk with Bucky at his side, the sights that set his eyes open wide back then filling his mind once more.

And he walks past the docks and past the orphanage and past the dance halls and past the corner shop, or at least past where they used to be, and feels all the while the prickle at the back of his neck that is someone watching him, hoping that that person is Bucky.

And the apartment he lives in now is one that looks too similar to the one they once shared, so similar that it hurts sometimes, because he turns his head and expects out of the corner of his eye to see Bucky standing there in the doorway, spinning a cap on his finger or stripping off his jacket to hang by the door or carrying in groceries with a new pencil snuck in the top of the bag.

Of course, it is bigger now, and the pipes are quiet in the walls, and there is actually insulation, but every time he walks in, the breath catches in his throat and he has to remind himself that this is the twenty-first century, and that he is all alone here.

But not for long, because he circles closer and closer to his apartment, and just knows that Bucky is creeping along behind him, maybe on the rooftops, maybe in the alleyways, but he is there and Steve can feel him, because he knows the feel of those eyes on his back from all those missions with a sniper rifle carefully cradling him in its sights, pulling him through with the constant reminder that he was never alone out there, that he would never be alone in anything as long as Bucky Barnes had his way.

And so he is sitting out of the fire escape one night, head tilted back as he stares up at a sky that should be starry and is just dim and empty instead, and holds his breath when he hears a soft clang above him.

Because he knows he was meant to hear it – the Winter Soldier makes no sound unless he wants to be heard.

So he tilts his head further back, stretching his neck, and looks over the man sitting on the rail behind him. Their gazes lock for a long moment, then Steve turns away, standing up and stretching his arms up over his head in a slow, exaggerated movement. “Guess I’ll head in,” he says slowly, stepping towards the window and ducking under the sash to enter his apartment.

He makes his way over to the small kitchen, pulls a glass from the cupboard and drinks down water with his back fixedly facing the far wall.

Steve turns only when he hears the window shut behind him, putting the glass down on the counter and swallowing softly. “Bucky,” he says quietly in the dark room, the man before him framed by the light coming in through the glass, the light of a city that never sleeps.

Bucky meets his eyes again and then his gaze drops down and runs over Steve’s body slowly. Steve squeezes his hands tight around the countertop edge, holding himself still as Bucky takes a step forward and replies, with a bit of questioning caution in his voice, “Steve.”

But he does not sleep that night. At least, not in the bed Steve makes up on the couch.

And the next day, not on the air mattress he sets up on the floor.

And when Steve sleeps on the air mattress instead, not on the actual bed.

So Steve folds up the couch blankets, deflates the mattress, and sleeps in his own bed, watching every night as Bucky paces around his room, sometimes sitting along the wall, sometimes leaving the room and shutting the door quietly behind himself as Steve drifts off to sleep.

Because, as far as he can tell, Bucky will only sleep on the floor – laying flat out on his back by the wall or sitting near the window with his hands folded over his knees and his forehead tipping down to rest on his knuckles. He supposes he is grateful Bucky sleeps somewhat prone, because he imagines once finding him sleeping standing up and his heart breaks just a little bit too much to bear.

And sometimes Steve wakes up to find Bucky sitting on the couch, partway through a book and looking as if he has been awake all night. And sometimes he wakes up to the scent of fresh breakfast filling the rooms, Bucky working away at the stove, mixing things Steve still mixes the names up for, experimenting with recipes they could only have dreamed of when they were younger, and very carefully never ever boiling anything more than necessary.

Steve sets up a routine, because he knows, well thinks, or at the very least hopes, that a daily pattern will be enough to help draw Bucky out, will be enough to settle his mind and bring light back to those dim eyes.

So he puts aside his own book every evening after dinner sometime between nine and ten – because as much as he was a soldier, he refuses to be any more precise than that, because he refuses to make this some sort of program for Bucky to memorize – or switches off the television, because Bucky for some reason only watches it when he is in the room.

And sometimes he wants to say ‘do you remember how we used to listen to the radio together? The one we saved for and were able to buy from that second-hand shop - the one that was still broken, and took us weeks of messing with to finally get working? Do you remember huddling up and listening to a broadcast one Halloween and thinking that the world was falling apart over our heads, how you wrapped your arm around my shoulders and tugged me in close to your side while we waited for something to burst in the window and end us for good?’ but he bites his tongue every time, imagining how it would feel if Bucky admitted that he could not remember, that he would probably never remember, imagining seeing that face shut down like it did several times a day, when Steve misspoke and forgot that the man in the room was someone who was still trying to figure out which of his memories were his own and which had been fed into his brain like downloadable software, and he goes to brush his teeth instead.

And one night when Steve is laying there on his side, in a bed that feels too large to be in by himself when he remembers winter nights spent desperately cuddled up for warmth, staring across the room to where he can make out Bucky even through the dark, sitting against the wall and shuddering, shuddering, shuddering away, Steve remembers more than just those winter nights here in New York.

He remembers the trenches, and trying to sleep in one big dog pile, shoving lazily to be on top because whoever was at the bottom ended up soaked in mud. He remembers cots haphazardly set up in tents that had no firm foundation, remembers the wooden legs sinking down into wet, wet earth until it felt like you were floating on water, remembers shifting in the night to set the tiny beds together and curl up against a body he was finally the same size as, holding on tight when all their dreams were of drowning in the muddy wet.

He remembers the shuddering of the truck bed beneath him as he leaned into the soldier next to him, not the solider, but Bucky, because it was always Bucky at his side, and sleeping through the rattling of wheels connected by cracked axels over roads not meant to carry such loads.

He remembers sleeping in weather so cold his hands and feet and face were numb, his whole body was numb, so numb that he could not even feel the body he was propped up against, but knowing, even in the dark, from the chatter of teeth in his ear that his man was there by his side until the morning.

So he slid down from the bed, making his way slowly across the room in the dark, and settled down against the wall as well. Steve pressed their sides together carefully, sealing them together from hip to shoulder, and leaned his head down to rest his cheek against Bucky’s shoulder, his temple against the side of his jaw, and remained there, still, until the shuddering beside him faded away.

And Bucky tilted his head to rest against his own and Steve fell asleep with a smile on his face.

 

**Author's Note:**

> well, thanks for reading - hope it was enjoyable and not just rambling nonsense. Comments/kudos always appreciated


End file.
